


Closer

by michi_thekiller



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, BDSM fluff, Bondage, D/s relationship, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Sherlock, Rimming, Romance, Rough Sex, Tumblr: letsdrawsherlock, Tumblr: letswritesherlock, porn porn porn, romantic rough sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 18:04:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/864991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michi_thekiller/pseuds/michi_thekiller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>You let me violate you, you let me desecrate you</i><br/><i>You let me penetrate you, you let me complicate you</i><br/> <br/>"Sherlock cupped John's face between his trembling hands, the two of them so close together that they shared the same breath. Oxygen and carbon dioxide passed from one set of lungs to another, and he couldn't hear over the pounding of his own heart, and he said, 'I need you.' "</p><p>Written for Challenge 1 for LetswriteSherlock:<i> "After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then…"</i></p><p>Also written as a companion piece to Archia's <a href="http://archiaart.tumblr.com/post/53257624500/i-want-to-fuck-you-like-an-animal-i-want-to-feel">gorgeous LetsDrawSherlock entry.</a><a></a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Closer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deuxexmycroft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deuxexmycroft/gifts).



> This is for [Archia](http://archiaart.tumblr.com). She draws such beautiful things, writes so beautifully, and is on the whole beautiful. (She is also a master of guilt-tripping.) This story is written based upon [her gorgeous submission for letsdrawsherlock.](http://archiaart.tumblr.com/post/53257624500/i-want-to-fuck-you-like-an-animal-i-want-to-feel) To make the fusion complete, I humbly submit this to letswritesherlock. [Lyrics](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/nineinchnails/closer.html) are from [Nine Inch Nails' Closer.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PTFwQP86BRs)
> 
> [Now available in **Russian!**](http://ficbook.net/readfic/1277283) Translation by the incredible Little Red Hen.

 

 

When a bullet enters a brain, the entry wound is neat - a small round circle of penetration, a miniature black hole, a window into the mind. The blood trickles out in small rivulets, rich and dark, as if one’s thoughts were leaking out. It is the exit wound that flowers into a starburst of gore, the shattered bits of bone and dripping grey matter painting the wall.

 

Sherlock lowered his gun.

 

-

 

Forensics would later find the bullet in the wall, and from the angle of penetration into the suspect’s skull, from the path it had tunnelled through the no-longer functioning brain tissue, investigators would be able to deduce the trajectory of the shot fired. Later on, when the reports were filed, the time of the shot fired would coincide with the arrival of the SCO19 Response Team. One SFO in particular, Ms. Verona Jackson (collar #547) would confirm that she had indeed fired her weapon on scene out of necessity in a hostage situation, and would document appropriately. Afterwards, she would be sent to after-action stress debriefings per the standard operating procedures. The mental health of any officer is just as crucial as his or her physical health.

 

John and Sherlock did not speak on the cab ride back to Baker Street. The space between them vibrated with silence. Sherlock placed his hand down on the seat in the space between them, John’s hand resting next to his. Their pinkie fingers brushed against one another, right hand against left, and then their hands stilled. Neither of them were shaking, visibly.

 

 

-

 

The first death was necessary.

Later, they were all necessary.

Anatoly Kamanev was the leader of a drug trafficking ring, current operational headquarters: Paris, France - City of Light. A man with many connections, a solitary spider in a web of his own, spinning his silk, growing fat from his captures; in all respects, a powerful, dangerous man.

He did not look so powerful, on his knees and cradling his stomach with the red seeping out between his fingers, begging for his life. He did not look so dangerous, with the tears, and the saliva, and the mucus, all of it dripping down his face, with a mouth that could only say, “Please, let me live,” and “Please, God, let me live” and “Jesus,” over and over again.

_Please, God, let me live._

Sherlock swore, mostly cursing himself. He had miscalculated the angle when he had aimed, he had not quite accounted for the kickback of the gun in his hand, and although this wound was most likely fatal, it was not the easy kill-shot he had been hoping for. He had never been the excellent marksman that John was.

“You are going to die tonight,” he told Kamanev - not meant to be threatening, simply stating a fact. Judging from the point of entry, the little piece of lead had tunnelled through his liver and perforated his stomach; the former being the more serious injury. The liver being a highly vascularised solid organ, it was likely to bleed out, Kamanev first going into hypovolemic shock, and then traumatic arrest. Chances for survival were slim, although not entirely nonexistent, supposing that he managed to get himself to an operating room in time.

Sherlock stood over the man with the certainty that his chances for survival would be reduced to none.

“Please,” Kamanev gasped. “Mercy.”

On his left hand, on his ring finger, there was the slight gleam from a well-polished gold ring, although blood now trickled down half of it. He was approximately 37, no, 35, younger than one might expect for a drug lord, designer suit and gold Rolex speaking of one eager to show off his wealth, typical of a person who had grown up in abject poverty, as Kamanev had: a thieving, starving child in the ghetto. He owned a cat - no, two - from the stray hairs on his trouser legs. He wore a heavy, overly gaudy gold locket around his neck. Sherlock didn’t need to look inside to know that it contained pictures of his children. Obvious.

He was likely to bleed to death in this cold, empty alleyway, in pain and alone. This was also obvious.

Mercy.

Sherlock raised the gun and considered for a moment - the brain or the heart? - as Kamanev put a bloody hand out, imploring, and Sherlock’s hand did not tremble, although he felt like it did, and he gently squeezed the trigger, and Kamanev’s mouth fell open, and all likely thoughts of his wife and children stopped in a burst of gore, splinters of bone and gobs of brain on the floor.

Sherlock wiped his gun with a handkerchief and tucked it away. He took a step away when the whole world spun around him, the ground beneath his feet suddenly wavering, and he collapsed with palms against the grit of gravel, breath too fast and the buildings warping illogically around him, concrete walls bulging, pressing in too tight.

Nausea overwhelmed him in rolling waves, as certain and as inevitable as the tide. He retched once and vomited what little was in his stomach - half a sandwich: prosciutto, fresh mozzarella, bitter greens on croissant - eaten earlier that day, mostly water. He retched again and heaved dry, and shook, and could not stop his shaking.

Sherlock had seen bodies more destroyed than this; scenes far more gruesome, far less fresh. He had smelled a body left to rot for three weeks in oppressive summer heat; he had smelled much worse than the warmth of fresh blood and shit that filled his nostrils now. And yet he retched again.

He did not understand. He could not understand, and although the shaking eventually stopped, the feeling of wretchedness stayed with him, still, for quite a time afterwards.

 

 

-

“ _High-functioning sociopath,_ ” was what the psychiatrist wrote in Sherlock Holmes’s file.

Sherlock had been 16 at the time.

“Your wife is going to leave you,” he told Dr. Berman, his voice calm and impassive, reading his psychiatrist with cool pale eyes unblinking.

Dr. Berman paled and scribbled down some more notes that he thought Sherlock couldn’t read.

Sherlock didn’t have to go back to see the psychiatrist again, after that session.

 

-

 

“One day we’ll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes’ll be the one who put it there.”

 

-

 

Everything, as they say, gets easier with practise.

The cab reeked of mango-sherbert scent air deodoriser (Tropical Breeze, on the label), layered on top of the stale scent of cigarette smoke in attempt to cloak it. Sherlock closed his eyes and recalled the Rorschach-blot-pattern of blood and brain on the wall, thought about the surety of the gun in his hand, and he felt nothing.

It had been three years, six months, three weeks, and five days since he’d last felt sick.

After a while, even bodies blurred together.

Sherlock opened his eyes and saw John. He watched him breathe, the miracle of breathing, the rise and fall of his chest, inhale and exhale. John was breathing, the internal processes of his body functioning, heart pumping, lungs inflating and deflating, mouth parted just slightly the way it did with the adrenaline of the case still coursing through his veins. Sherlock thought about the way John’s breath looked in the winter, curling out in a soft cloud of smoke in the frigid air. He thought about John’s breath against his own mouth. He felt only hollowness with spilled blood. Expiration. He watched John breathe and revelled in the joy of respiration.

John, after a moment, noticed himself being watched. He turned slightly towards Sherlock and the artificial lights of nighttime London lit half his face, the other half in shadow. His hand brushed against Sherlock’s as he turned.

“What is it?” John asked.

“Nothing,” said Sherlock.

 

 

-

 

The lights were off in 221A by the time they got home. The lights were off in the hallway downstairs as well and Sherlock pressed John against the wall, needing the solid thud of body against body, flesh to flesh, to confirm the realness of him.

He pressed their foreheads together, brushed his fingers over John’s temple where the man had pressed the gun. He was a dead man now. Sherlock closed his eyes and heard the now-familiar sound of bullet piercing flesh, saw the distinctive red hue of fresh blood, he squeezed his eyes shut tight and wanted to squeeze the trigger all over again.

He opened his eyes and saw John looking at him, the knowledge of what could have happened reflected back at him in dark blue eyes. The whirr of it was loud in their brains, the threat of it racing in their pulses.

“You almost--” said Sherlock. “I almost--”

“Shhh,” said John, and tilted his face up, and pressed their mouths together.

When they kissed it was slow and tentative, almost shy, the unhurried brush of lips against one another, the lightest pressure of mouth to mouth. It was not a tentativeness that came from inexperience or ignorance, but rather from knowing too much, too well, knowing the cost of loss. Sherlock’s hands shook and his whole body was shaky and his lips were just so - so light and tender against John’s mouth. It was as if he could shatter him with the wrong touch. It was not because John was fragile, for there was no fragility about John, but it was because Sherlock knew too much about the fragility of humans, their skulls and soft brains and vital, beating hearts.

John shook with the same knowledge, and his hand clenched, hard and tight, on Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock cupped John's face between his trembling hands, the two of them so close together that they shared the same breath. Oxygen and carbon dioxide passed from one set of lungs to another, and he couldn't hear over the pounding of his own heart, and he said, "I need you."

John’s eyes went wide, darkened, then, with arousal, his breath caught in his throat. His other hand tightened on Sherlock’s jacket, twisting and wrinkling the fine material in his fist, and he nodded.

Sherlock pulled back and considered John, the way he sometimes did. What a thing to consider, John Watson, the hows and the whys, the warmth of him beneath Sherlock’s hands. John licked his lips, tempting Sherlock to crush their mouths together. He didn’t.

He released John, and then he turned and bounded up the stairs, John after him in a second.

 

-

 

Once inside 221B Sherlock could not resist a kiss, this one harsher, tenderness sizzling in the surge of need. He pulled John to him and he held him tucked just right against his own body, and felt the air in his own lungs and the blood in his own heart. He was aware of being alive. He was aware, even more, of John being alive. He wanted his tongue in John’s mouth and pressed for it, their mouths melded together and then pulling back so that he could lick at John’s lips. John wanted it too and opened for him with a soft moan, the sort of sound that travelled directly to a man’s cock.

Sherlock shuddered and pressed his growing erection against John’s thigh. John made another small sound and rubbed himself against the evidence of desire, inciting a harsh growl and Sherlock’s hand scratching possessively down his back.

Sherlock wondered, as he did sometimes, how much of this John actually wanted, and how much of it was because Sherlock needed it, just this. With John’s body warm against his, John’s mouth open and welcoming, John’s tongue rubbing, slick and wet, and Sherlock with his heart thundering in a way it didn’t after he killed a man, he found it difficult to care.

“Go to the bedroom and wait for me,” Sherlock told him when they parted. He didn’t really plan to do anything in the meanwhile. He only wanted John to be waiting.

John had proven himself, again and again, to be wonderful at that.

 

-

 

In Barcelona, the kill was messy. A shattered jaw, flaps of cheek, scattered teeth and a surprised black hole where an eye used to be.

Sherlock went to a cafe afterwards and had himself a cup of strong Spanish coffee, black with too much sugar. It wasn’t the way that John would have made it.

“ _Un monstruo ha venido,_ ” said the petty underlings of the crime syndicate, whispering it amongst each other in hushed voices.

 

-

 

When Sherlock entered the bedroom - _his_ bedroom, _their_ bedroom - John was standing there, half-undressed, shoes kicked off and his hands working at his own belt.

“Sherlock!” John gasped with false shock, and made a comical attempt to cover himself. It was reminiscent of the flustered way he would have looked, once, a very long time ago, when Sherlock had walked in on him in inopportune moments. Back then that might have led to an argument about privacy, and the blatant disregard for it. Back then, when John had still kept things hidden from Sherlock.

“Don’t look,” John said, pretending to hide himself with a sheet. “I’m not decent.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, and crossed the distance between them so that he could pull John in for a kiss. “You’re very indecent.”

“Go away,” John said, against Sherlock’s mouth. He dropped the sheet to push at him playfully. “I’m not ready yet. Go outside and then come back in so I can be waiting for you in your bed, all sexy like.”

They laughed together, and then kissed, John’s hands on his shoulders clutching just a little too hard, still needing to feel the solidity of one another.

Sherlock’s hands wandered, tugging the belt open, popping open the button on John’s trousers, and then unzipping the fly. He slipped his hand inside to palm John’s cock, warm and half-hard already with sheer anticipation.

“You’re so impatient,” John chided.

“Patience was never one of my virtues,” Sherlock told him.

“You have those?” John said. His breath hitched with the way that Sherlock’s hand was moving. “News to me.”

“Some,” Sherlock amended. He wanted to hear all the different cadences in John’s voice when he tried to be witty while he was being pleasured.

“Pity,” John said. He closed his eyes and shuddered, tilting forward, his forehead resting against Sherlock’s shoulder. “I like you without.”

Need tightened, hot and insistent, deep in Sherlock’s gut. He kissed him again, tongue sliding into the heat of his mouth, hand tightening on John’s dick. John arched against him, pleasured, needy, and Sherlock needed to feel him, skin to skin. He had thought about John’s skin in Barcelona, in Milan, in Amsterdam. Thoughts had warmed him in the bitter winter in St. Petersburg. Thoughts had been all he’d had then, fabricated memories and no real data for his hypotheses on the texture of skin, the warmth and tone of it, the slide of it underneath questing fingers.

He pulled at John’s trousers with rough hands. He stripped him hurriedly and hastily, needing to see him, all of him, needing to touch him in all the places where he’d once been denied.

The reality of John’s skin was warm and soft in a way underneath Sherlock’s hands. The muscles in John’s arms were tense still, battle-ready. How Sherlock wanted to unfold him.

He pressed their mouths together and they were both clumsy in passion - as if flush with youth all over again, as if they were running high on hormones and no experience. Their teeth knocked together for a moment, Sherlock’s hands grabbing at bare skin, John tugging at his suit. He was fully clothed and John fully naked, but when John pulled back to look at him, hissing out a ragged breath between his teeth, his mouth reddened from kisses, Sherlock felt completely laid bare.

Sherlock shrugged his jacket off with brisk efficiency. His hands went to the buttons of his collared shirt, popping open the first two in a matter of seconds before John placed his hands on top of Sherlock’s and stopped him.

“Don’t,” John said, and he licked his lips. Sherlock watched his wet red tongue running over his reddened mouth.

“Let me do it,” John said.

John took his time with the third button; his nail scraping against the smooth plastic back of it, his thumb pushing it slow through the buttonhole. His thumb caressed the smooth fabric of Sherlock's shirt before he peeled it delicately open, with almost surgical precision. His hands were slow, and his breaths were shallow.

The next button was given the same treatment, infuriatingly careful. Sherlock wanted to grab at John’s wrists and just barely contained himself. John slid his hand into the space of flesh that he’d created and warmed it with his palm. He did _nothing_ with it, only letting it rest, fingers splayed on the muscles of Sherlock’s solar plexus.

“Hurry it up,” Sherlock said, feeling the heat of John’s palm press into his belly.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” John said.

Sherlock smirked. “But you like it when I tell you what to do.”

John considered this. “Yes,” he said, “that I do,” and undid the next button, torturously slowly, smiling to himself.

John stroked his fingers over the flat plane of Sherlock’s stomach, stroking the flesh he’d just exposed. He was smiling at Sherlock in a way that made Sherlock want to bite him. _Later,_ Sherlock promised himself.

John’s hands were so steady, the way they were in times of war and danger. He looked natural with a gun in his hand. Only his insides ever shook. His outsides were so neat. His mind was a mess. Sherlock thought of the barrel of the gun pressed to John’s temple again, the way that it had threatened to make a mess of them both. He reached out and stroked his fingers over the vulnerable spot of the temple, pressed in and took John’s pulse from his temporal artery. 30 beats in fifteen seconds. 120 beats per minute.

In the span of the last five minutes, John’s heart had beat for him 600 times.

His fingers stroked through John’s hair, gently petting. John shuddered and pressed into his touch. Their eyes met and Sherlock was struck with a bright awareness: the touch of John’s hands, his fingers sliding gentle and calm on Sherlock’s skin, the texture of callouses in contrast with that of softer, less-experienced skin, the delicate scrape of a single rounded nail, the fibres of the fine fabric of his own shirt brushing against his skin with movement. The texture of John’s hair between Sherlock’s fingers; the too-smooth oil slide of it from dried sweat. The flutter of John’s lashes when he blinked, the movement of air between them when he breathed. Everything was in this moment.

It had been like this when Sherlock had first come home, returned from the land of the not-dead. They had not kissed then. Instead John had touched him, fingers unwavering, trailing down Sherlock’s face. John’s breaths had been shallow. His hand had been steady, and his pulse had raced. Every touch had significance, every breath had counted, and Sherlock had measured the heartbeats in the seconds that they were together, cataloguing each detail. John had been so still; as always, he was the calm and unblinking eye when life stormed around him. Only his fingers had moved, re-learning the angles of Sherlock’s face, like a blind man trying to see. Each one of them had been cataloguing the other.

Everything had been in that moment. Everything was in this moment. And then, and now, each of them thought, _he is alive, he is alive, oh god._

Time slowed, stilled, crystallised. They felt each other breathe. They were, the both of them, in perfect singularity.

It was Sherlock who surged forward then, wanting to hear a different sort of _oh god_ on John’s lips. He kissed him with bruising force, pushing him down onto the bed. With both hands he grabbed John’s wrists, the way he had wanted to, and John arched beneath him, making a little sound into the kiss. Sherlock rubbed his still mostly-clothed body against John’s naked one, earning him a gasp from the rush of friction against a now-eager erection.

He crawled on top of him, hands gripping wrists, John’s wrists pinned to the bed. John’s hips tilted up, rubbing himself against Sherlock’s thigh, like a dog that didn’t know anything other than his own need for release. Sherlock kissed him some more for it, heated and wet, tongue shoved in deep like he was trying to lick the back of John’s throat.

The straps that they used were affixed to the chains fastened to the legs of the bed. Sherlock tugged one of them out from the space between the mattress and the headboard and shoved John’s wrist into the soft red leather, strapped it in tight with expert ease - quickly and forcefully, as if he had to subdue him. Sometimes John struggled, to make the game more interesting. Tonight he barely even put up a fight.

When both wrists were fastened, John tested his strength, yanking hard so that the chains rattled, but it all held fast. His breathing was fast, pupils dilated at his own vulnerability.

The collar was retrieved from the nightstand next to the bed, along with a tube of lubricant, the latter set aside. John bared his throat for him, that universal gesture of trust amongst wild creatures; his submission a gift.

Sherlock took the proffered gift of his throat, and claimed it with his mouth. He licked a hot, wet trail up the strong line of it. He kissed the soft swell of John’s Adam’s apple in his throat. He kissed the pulse point of the jugular and sucked, long and hard. He wanted to feel John’s carotid artery in his mouth.

He nudged his nose up the arc of John’s throat, brushing along the skin, tracing delicately. He breathed him in; the warm musk of John - imagined he could still smell that sharp, sour note of adrenaline in sweat.

“Come on,” John breathed. The line of his throat was tense with want. “Hurry up already,” he said, his turn to be impatient.

“Quiet or I’ll gag you,” Sherlock said, trailing a fingertip up and down the side of John’s neck.

John made a sound from somewhere deep in his throat. He swallowed hard.

“Promises, promises,” he sighed, wistful.

Sherlock scraped his teeth along the sensitive skin of John’s throat and then bit him, at the junction of neck and throat, teeth sinking in for a moment. John cried out, arching his head back, chains jangling as he pulled at them suddenly. Sherlock sucked a harsh kiss over the mark he’d left there, deepening the bruise. John’s hips moved uselessly, seeking him out for friction.

“Sherlock, please,” he said.

“Shh,” Sherlock shushed against his skin, and dropped a sweet kiss to the hollow of his throat. He looped the collar around John’s neck and slid the strap in place, tugging until it was snug before fastening it with the buckle.

“Too tight?” he asked, when John let out a soft gasp.

“Just tight enough,” John replied, sucking in a quick breath.

Sherlock nodded, satisfied. He nipped at the area of throat above the collar.

He fixed the straps to both of John's ankles; the colour of the leather was the same hue as freshly dried blood. He admired the red of it against the warm tones of John's skin.

John was lovely like this; hands chained above his head, collar around his neck, wearing the marks of Sherlock’s mouth above and below the collar. He wore Sherlock’s ownership with such natural grace. His mouth parted with soft panting. His lips were full, plush and soft-looking from the force with which he’d been kissed. The hint of red inside, the light tease of tongue, it was like an invitation.

Sherlock hissed a breath through his teeth.

He finished the job that John had started, stripping off his open shirt and dropping it to the floor. He kicked off his shoes, took off his socks, and his hands went to his own trousers. John watched him with open hunger, an expression that still caught Sherlock by surprise the way things so rarely did. There had been a time when that sort of look seemed as much of an impossibility as the existence of monstrous demonic hounds. That was all in the past; the impossible had been eliminated.

And so he opened his trousers slowly, pushed them down over his slim hips, for the simple benefit of watching John watching him, John’s gaze fixated upon him. He had always basked in just this, the personal glory of John Watson’s attention; he flourished under it, and came to be more of himself. His pants were given the same treatment, his movements easy and sensuous. He took himself in his own hand, stroking his cock to the sight of John bound in his bed, shifting and completely at Sherlock’s mercy.

“Sherlock,” John chided, “that’s unfair.”

“My apologies,” Sherlock said, and climbed up on the bed. The mattress dipped underneath his weight as he straddled John’s torso. “It _is_ rather rude when I can clearly see how much you need my cock in your mouth.”

John made a small noise in the back of his throat and shifted his hips, the tip of his tongue already peeking out. Sherlock held himself in his hand and rubbed the head of his dick against the softness of John’s cheek. John closed his eyes, as if in bliss or supplication. A drop of clear precum beaded at the tip of Sherlock’s dick at the sight. He rubbed his dick over both of John’s cheeks, over the lushness of his mouth, painting sticky trails over John’s face with the clear wetness of his arousal, desecrating the goodness of him. He thought about John’s face dripping with his semen, bodily essence of desire; thought about how beautiful it was, the sight of John’s mouth anointed with his come. Consecration, in a way.

“Open up,” Sherlock commanded, and then, almost kindly: “And try not to gag.” Although that had to be near the top of the list of the greatest earthly pleasures, the sight of John Watson gagging helplessly on his cock.

John’s mouth opened for him, and John’s eyes opened to look up at him. Sherlock pushed his cock into the willing wetness of his mouth.

He pushed it in slowly, sliding along John’s tongue, drinking in the sight of John’s mouth wrapped around his cock. He rubbed it back and forth on the flat of John’s tongue, hissing at the soft wet slide on the underside of his cock, the way John’s tongue fluttered, just slightly, as he rubbed against it.

He pushed it in further, shuddered at the very light scrape of John’s teeth, watched John’s eyes wide and staring at him. He didn’t stop until the head of his dick bumped, gently, against the back of John’s throat. John swallowed around him, fighting the urge to gag, and Sherlock let out out a groan - low, deep sound of desire.

John made a small sound that vibrated straight up Sherlock’s cock and into his balls. Sherlock fought the urge to shove in, the urge to thrust, and only barely managed to contain himself. Instead he rocked gently, back and forth, on John’s tongue.

“Shh,” Sherlock coaxed. “Remember to breathe.”

John’s mouth was so perfectly hot and wet all around him. And when John hollowed his cheeks and sucked it was almost too much, this velvet tightness around his dick. It was difficult to believe John had never sucked cock before him. That knowledge was rapturous in itself; how inexperienced John had once been, the chastity of his mouth now tainted with the fruit of knowledge.

The way John sucked him now, motions restrained by his position, unable to use his hands, his mouth reduced to another hot, wet hole for the using - it was like he’d been born for it.

Sherlock panted; moaned loud and low, shameless, one hand gently massaging John’s throat above the collar, encouraging, imagining that he could feel his cock through the column of flesh.

He rocked in further, fucked John’s mouth with short, easy thrusts. He worked himself in to the hilt eventually - nearly - barely an inch left out of the wet and the warmth.

“There’s only a little bit left,” Sherlock told John, and smoothed his fingers through soft blond hair, petting him. “You can lick it for me, can’t you? Show me how you use your tongue.”

John shuddered, made another sweet sound for him, and tried, bless him, how he tried. Sherlock watched, enraptured, as John strained to lick with his mouth already stuffed full of cock. He hissed at the feeling of the flat warmth of John’s tongue fluttering lightly against the underside of his cock, attempting to lick and only managing the tiniest of laps, almost tickling the base of his cock.

“Good, good,” Sherlock said, and stroked John’s hair. His other hand pet his clean-shaven cheek, and now he could feel - when he shifted, when he rubbed - the bulge of his own cock through John’s cheek. “You’re doing so good for me,” he said, praise obvious in his touches.

There were few visions a man could call sheer perfection. This was one of them, and how Sherlock wished he could share this with the world, with the female-bodied part of the world in particular, specifically those who had once dated John Watson. How he wished John’s girlfriends could see him now, hands bound in pretty red straps and chained above his head, collared, mouth plugged full of Sherlock’s cock and sucking like he was starved for it. God was in the details, or the devil, depending upon which saying one ascribed to, and Sherlock would show them god or the devil depending in all the details of John. He would extrapolate for them the finer points of John’s skin, warm and lightly perspiring, the flush of his cheeks, the blown pupils of his deep blue eyes, his nipples peaked pink with arousal, completely untouched. How his wrists turned white when he tugged too hard at his restraints, how his throat and collarbones and shoulder and chest purpled under Sherlock’s mouth. He would direct their attention to John’s cock, of course, flushed and hard, engorged with blood and jutting out proud, shining at the tip with the wet drip of arousal, and then - John’s mouth, stretched so perfectly around Sherlock’s cock, and the way the saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth and glistened on his lips. How damning the evidence, all added together: John was no longer theirs, had never really been theirs, he was Sherlock’s, he was his, he was his.

Sherlock found his hips thrusting, himself moaning, panting with excitement. He let out a low, soft grunt, surprised - John was dangerously good at sucking. If he wasn’t careful he’d come down his throat in no time at all, and with a deep shudder and a low moan, he pushed John off.

“Spread,” he growled.

John, dazed and caught out of breath, lips swollen and wet, did not react quickly enough for Sherlock’s satisfaction. Of course, anything less than immediate was far too long when Sherlock was aching with want.

He shifted down quickly, shoved John's legs open himself and forced his thighs to spread. Grabbed one cheek of his arse and squeezed it hard, round and firm in his hand, and held him open as he licked a hot, wet stripe up the crack of John's arse.

"Oh god," John said, the words strangled in his throat as Sherlock rubbed the flat of his tongue over his tight, closed hole. He shivered and attempted to spread himself open further, hips tilted up, knees bent and feet flat on the bed.

“Oh god, oh god,” John said again, words of invocation but not meant for any deity, the desperate prayers spilling out in the name of earthly pleasures instead. “Oh god,” John said - for Sherlock. John was gasping with each rub of Sherlock’s tongue slicking up his hole, the chains rattling as he shifted, squirming, the whole of him vibrating with barely-controlled excitement. He spread his legs so well, splayed open and wanting, offering himself for the taking. Sherlock would have praised him for it if his mouth weren’t otherwise occupied. He held him open, kneaded the flesh in his hands instead, one hand on the back of John’s thigh and the other squeezing one cheek. He held him with his thumb, pulling at that tight hole and forcing it to open, as he wormed the slick muscle of his tongue into that dirty, intimate place. John was so hot and tight inside, becoming wet with Sherlock’s spit as he laved his tongue against it. Sherlock would make sure he was dripping, sinfully wet and ready for him, by the time that he was done.

John moaned openly, whorish and unashamed, burying his face into his own arm, teeth scraping against his own flesh. He squirmed wildly from the stimulation and Sherlock stopped his licking to bite him for it - although it was for himself as well - teeth sinking in to the flesh of one arse cheek, that satisfying sensation of flesh between his teeth. John arched, cried out, head hitting the pillows hard. The curve of his body was mathematical and the sound of his voice was musical, screaming out one pure note that was pitched perfectly midway on the scale of pleasure and pain.

Sherlock soothed the indentations of his teeth with his tongue, sucked a kiss over it that made John whisper, “ _Bloody hell_ ,” panting hard and heated. God or the devil depending; heaven or hell. Sherlock held John down and open with both hands, and forced him to take his tongue right where he needed it - pushing it into his hole, all hot and filthy and wet.

He slid a finger in next to his tongue, the slide of it eased by saliva alone. He crooked it just right and felt John’s body jerk in response, heard the catch in his throat and the high-pitched noise that was reflexive and couldn’t be caught. He rubbed and pushed with just one finger, his tongue licking along the edge of John’s hole, his own body burning with the pleasure of John opening up for him, with the sounds of John alternating between soft curses and the building, uncontrollable whimpers singing into his brain.

Two fingers slid in easy, pulling the sort of moan from John that told Sherlock of the burn that he must feel and yet he pushed back, asking for more, greedy for it. Two fingers spread apart and into the vee of them Sherlock slid his tongue, flickered it in and out. John’s thighs shook and Sherlock could feel the muscles quiver beneath his hand. Sherlock’s dick twitched in response to every small whimper, the both of them burning with the knowledge that John would get more when Sherlock was ready for it, not when John thought he was, no matter the amount of pleading or begging.

Three fingers next, the stretch of it obvious, the tightening of skin around his knuckles and John’s body tight around them. Sherlock knew just where to rub, his fingers naturally long and his knowledge carefully expert by now - how easily he stimulated John, pushed against his prostate and made the moans spill out from his throat, easy and needy. He licked the skin of the sensitive rim, pulled taut around fingers, wriggled and twisted his fingers ‘round and ‘round, listened to the almost-sob that choked John when he rubbed that spot inside of him particularly hard.

He pulled back to watch John as he fingered him, saw how his skin had taken on a sheen of sweat, the mess of his hair tossed back against the pillows and the glisten of tongue hanging out of his open, panting mouth. John: compact, put-together, the calmness in chaos, the steady hand. He wanted to make a mess of him, wanted to watch him fall apart. He would deconstruct him and make him anew. John whimpered and shivered around the fingers pushing into him, rubbing and pressing, fucking him. His insides were enticingly, indulgently hot.

“Tell me what you want,” Sherlock said, and the knowledge of what John wanted was a warm pleasure that glowed in his chest and pooled liquid deep in his belly. He licked a delicate wet line up John's cock, flushed and twitching with desire, caught the drip of precum at the tip and tasted bitter salt.

"Sherlock," John gasped, "I want... I want you to fuck me."

"With?" Sherlock prompted.

"Your cock," John said, "Give me your cock."

"Demanding, aren't we?" Sherlock said, arching a brow. He pushed his fingers in hard then, a nice direct thrust to John's prostate that made him cry out, sharp, hips jerking up and precum dribbling out.

"Please," John corrected himself breathlessly. He laughed a little, that sound just as breathless, and Sherlock laughed a little too, the irony of Sherlock reminding John of his manners not escaping either one of them.

Sherlock smiled at him, and his fingers massaged his prostate gently, as if trying to soothe a hurt.

"Oh god," John said, and then, "Please, Sherlock, _please,_ your cock, give it to me, I need it, please, oh please, please..."

Babbling, pleading, lost.

"Shh," said Sherlock, and sucked a kiss on his thigh as he slid his fingers out. "I'll give you what you need."

The last chain was retrieved from under the bed. Sherlock clipped it to the cuffs at John's ankles, chaining them together with a small distance in between. John's wrists were released and they both became distracted for a moment as the first thing John did with his temporary freedom was to grab at Sherlock to kiss him, hands running through Sherlock's hair. Sherlock imagined he could still taste his cock on John's tongue, and groaned into the kiss.

Sherlock slapped John's arse just to hear the sound of the sharp smack of his palm meeting flesh and John whimpered in the back of his throat, sucking at Sherlock's tongue. His fingers tightened, tangled in Sherlock's curls and tugging in his need, which made Sherlock grip his arse in both hands and squeeze.

When Sherlock pulled back, he reached for the lube, spilling it over his fingers in two generous squirts. He spread it over his own erection, needy and heated. He inserted the tip of the tube into John, squeezing it until the lube overflowed, dripping out of his tight hole, slick and wet and glistening obscenely. John shifted, moaning softly at the feeling of being filled with lube, cold and wet, but Sherlock was fascinated by the sight of his hole, shining wet and dripping. He slid his fingers into the mess just to feel the slide of it, and the excess lube that trickled out was warm with John's body heat, as if he had produced the liquid himself in preparation to be fucked.

It took only a small amount of coordination to slide up into the space left open between John’s spread thighs, so that his ankles rested on Sherlock’s back, chain strung between them, the two of them bound together now. His dick slid neatly into the warm, slippery crevice of John’s arse and he rubbed it up and down in the wetness that dripped out of his closed hole, teasing them both.

“Sherlock, please,” John begged, hands on the back of Sherlock’s neck, nuzzling against the hollow of his throat. “Please.”

Sherlock didn’t need any further encouragement. He reached down between them and guided the head of his dick right where it needed to be, slick and warm and waiting for him to fill it up. A moment of pressure, a moment of resistance.

Sherlock whispered into John’s ear, “I’m going to feel you from the inside,” right as he pushed in.

They both hissed at the feeling of connection. John was so _hot_ inside, wet with lube, welcoming and wanting, and Sherlock didn’t stop pushing until he was in all the way, his balls against the curve of John’s arse. His weight on top of John held them both down, the chain kept John’s legs up in place; they were the two of them locked together.

“So good,” Sherlock praised him, voice rumbling deep in his chest with luxurious pleasure. He pulled back slowly and relished the slide of every inch, rocking just the first few inches of his dick in shallow thrusts at first, teasing. John made a soft, keening sound, pushing his hips back, needing to be filled. Sherlock stopped, hesitated for a moment, petted John’s hair and drank in the pleading expression etched into John’s wonderfully familiar features. There had been a time when he could have never seen an expression such as this; there had been a time, tonight, when he thought he might never see this expression again. He nudged their mouths together softly, kissing lightly, right before he slammed his hips forward, cock shoving in so hard that John lost his breath.

“ _Fuck_ , Sherlock,” John gasped, and his insides were so _tight_ around Sherlock’s dick, warm and fluttering when he convulsed, as if his body were built purely for Sherlock’s pleasure.

“Rather the idea,” Sherlock hummed into his ear as he rocked into him for a few thrusts, nice and easy, before he slammed forward again.

“Bloody bastard,” John managed, eyes squeezed tight and hands grappling at Sherlock’s back, blunt nails digging into the shifting muscle. He could feel the heaviness of the leather straps around John’s wrists, and when he thrusted hard the chain jangled, so he did it again, and listened to the chain and the sharp “ _oh_ ” that escaped John’s mouth. Liking the sound of that, he did it again, this time angling better, rubbing hard against where he know John’s prostate to be, and the “ _oh_ ” that spilled out of John was a rich, full sound, loud and shuddery with deep pleasure.

Sherlock rocked his cock in and out, the movements smooth at first, made easy by lubricant. Of course the slow rhythm couldn’t satisfy him for long, as he was as ever impatient, surrounded by the wet, welcoming warmth of John’s insides, and soon he began to pick up the pace, bodies smacking together.

John clenched around him, gasped and moaned, hands clutching tight at Sherlock; his convulsing body and his leaking dick between them all the evidence that Sherlock needed to know that he was nailing his prostate with every single thrust.

Sherlock buried his face into John’s neck and breathed him in, that hot, humid smell of sex - like the waves of heat that radiated off the ground in heavy summer when it rained. It filled his nostrils and tickled the back of his throat, making him salivate.

He lifted up, slid his hand underneath John’s head, cradled it - his precious head, the fragility of his skull, his wonderful brain inside, still intact, still functioning and whole, still thinking his John-thoughts and managing all the minute, infinite processes required to be John Watson. It was a romantic misconception, really, to say that people loved with the heart. The heart was merely an organ -albeit an entirely necessary one - its sole purpose for the circulation of blood throughout the body. It was the brain that housed one’s thoughts, one’s personality in the frontal cortex, and one’s emotions in the limbic system, the capability for love buried in the hippocampus and amygdala; in the anterior thalamic nuclei and the septum; the habenula, the limbic cortex, and the fornix.

Sherlock’s hand found one of John’s, pressed it down against the pillow, pinned it there and interlaced their fingers. He looked into John’s eyes as if he could stare into dark blue irises, the wide black pupils, and slowly extract all of his thoughts, his secrets, and he thought, hard, _mine mine mine._ He didn’t say a word. John inhaled, sharp and sweet, and nodded all the same.

Sherlock pulled back once more and shoved his cock back in hard, claiming, taking what was his. John cried out, pushing back against him. The bed shifted and rocked with the rough movements, headboard knocking against the wall with rhythmic thudding, chain sliding and clinking against his back in quick percussion as he fucked John the way he had been wanting to, yearning and craving and simply _dying _to, needing the reclamation of his body.__

There had been a gun in his hand tonight, and a gun held against John’s temple. There had been a man who was no longer, nothing where a man used to be, and a blank nothingness inside Sherlock where sickness used to be. The scent of hot fresh blood and the heat of intestines was familiar but right now there was only summer rain heat flooding his nostrils, the sound of John moaning in sheer pleasure beneath him and John’s insides around him, hot and tight and perfect, and Sherlock's limbic system was lighting up in all of its complexity, all the axons firing electrical signals like stars flaring in the dark.

“You’re such a slut for me,” Sherlock said, rolling his hips as John arched, whimpered and clenched around his dick. “Only me, only me.”

He felt John shudder in response, a shudder that overtook his whole body.

“Sherlock,” John breathed, “use me.”

And so Sherlock did. He wrapped himself around John, clutching him tight, holding him in place. He fucked him viciously, thrusts sharp and unrelenting. His hips collided with the soft flesh of John’s arse, as if trying to tattoo out the rhythm, in morse code, of his own name, in rapid succession. How selfless John was, how heavenly-hot, sacrificial upon Sherlock's altar, his body a vessel, a temple, a warm, willing fuckhole for Sherlock to use, to take, to worship and fill up and violate and adore. 

It occurred to him, a bright pearl of a thought in the cloying fog of lust: _he does it because he wants it but he also does it for me._   It was, in its succintness, an accurate summation of their entire relationship.

He wanted to ruin John and reconstruct him in all the ways Sherlock needed him. 

Sherlock pounded John into the bed, mattress creaking beneath them, bedframe rattling and chains shaking and bedside table shaking a bit too. He fucked him hard, like an animal rutting in heat, without thought, operating only on raw instinct, hormones and need. His orgasm was building up inside of him, curling up in the pit of his stomach, tugging at his balls, and it made him want more, like it was never enough, like he could never do this enough, never touch enough, never fuck John enough.

“You’re mine,” he said to John, hot and panting into his ear, one hand reaching down between them to find John’s cock, hard and hot and leaking, aching for his touch. He grinded the head of his hard flesh right into the bump of John’s prostate to feel him tremble and to see him cry out.

John was nodding, begging, “Please, Sherlock, please,” agreeing “yes, yes,” over and over again as Sherlock stroked him and his cock rubbed inside of him. He was sultry with heat, fevered with need, mouth open panting hot, insides squeezing, and oh, how he needed to be fucked, good and hard and _deep_.

“You’re mine,” Sherlock growled, squeezing John’s dick hard. John's gasp pierced the air, and he came with a shout, unable to control it, the sound of a man pushed to his limit and shattering. His seed spilled out between them, some on Sherlock's belly  but mostly splattering wet and warm on his own. His body clenched around Sherlock’s cock as he shook hard with the intensity of his orgasm. He milked Sherlock's dick like the whole purpose of his existence was to service him and Sherlock surrendered, molten heat twisting deep inside and then pulsing out in waves of pleasure, coming inside of John, spurting hot liquid pleasure deep into his bowels.

Afterwards they panted, shivering in a way they could not allow themselves to before. They were breathing together, coming back to themselves, coming back to each other. They were in this moment; everything was in this moment, the press of their sweat-slicked bodies against each other, locked together by flesh and metal and their arms around one another, their mouths finding each other in open, trembling kisses, neither of them focused enough to make it anything more refined than rubbing of lips and tongue. And they inhaled each other's breath, shared carbon dioxide and oxygen between them, and each of them thought, _he is alive, he is alive, and mine, oh god, and mine and alive and mine._

 Sherlock wriggled out, slipping his cock out first and then sliding himself out from between John's legs. While he could have easily stayed inside of John all night, the chain digging into his back would have made it slightly uncomfortable for actual sleep. He unchained John next, grabbed a few Kleenex from next to the bed. He wiped them both up but paid special attention to John, cleaning up the semen on his belly and then in between his legs, unable to help a hiss at the sight of his own cum dripping slowly out of a reddened, used hole, still wet with lube.

"Pervert," John said warmly, voice roughened and blissed-out in the way that one could only sound from truly wonderful sex. Sherlock gazed down at him, his own eyes hooded and lazy, cataloguing the reality of John Watson, naked and lax in his bed. John held out his arms, beckoning, so that Sherlock could slide into them once he was done cleaning. His cuffs and collar were still on. Sherlock settled against him, into him, fingers finding John's jugular, pressing in to count his bounding pulse. 30 beats in 15 seconds, 120 times per minute.

"Shh," John said, and carded his fingers through Sherlock's hair, feeling the light dampness of fresh sweat. Sherlock said nothing, and squeezed him tight.

No room for bursts of blood and brain inside Sherlock's head now, no room for emptiness; all his empty spaces had been filled with John, the warmth of him seemingly endless.

And Sherlock pressed close, then - and then, pressed closer still. His hand found John’s, open and already waiting. Their fingers folded together, each hand one half of a prayer.

Their bodies pressed close, then - and wanted closer still. They pressed against one another, hands and hearts entwined. Their breaths slowed and evened out together - rising, falling together - soft and sighing in the night.

In a few hours, it would be morning, and the rising sun would slowly fill the room with shy and tender gold.

In a few hours, it would be morning.


End file.
